So I was in upstate New York over this past weekend. Now, upstate New York is dangerously close to Canadia (In case you haven't read about my previous misadventures in Canada, see here or here). Right after maple syrup and hockey players with missing teeth, cold air is Canada's primary export, which means that areas by the border are pretty darn cold. Fortunately, I believe that the Canadian cold-weather gnomes were on strike (probably because they weren't given their maple syrup allotment), because this weekend was pretty warm.
Not that it being warm or cold makes much difference in how I dress (i.e. like a colorblind hobo). But really, there is rarely any correlation between how much clothing I'm wearing and what the temperature outside is. Sometimes this works well for me. I'd say that about once a day, I overhear a beautiful woman say "Look at that underdressed doofus. That's way hot."*
*This is exactly as true as you think it is.
So no shit, there I was in upstate New York on a lake, beautiful day, and I wasn't wearing much (ladies...) As could be expected, this stopped the ladies from talking to me, but I was approached by an incredulous Floridian.
"Dude, you're crazy. It's freezing, how are you wearing so little?"
I shrugged. "I dunno, I don't think it's too cold."
"You're crazy man. I'm freezing, and I'm wearing way more than you are"
"No, you're crazy. You live in Florida. Have you thought about that? Alligators live there. It's not meant for human habitation. The only reason anyone went there in the first place is because some guy who was trippin' thought he would find a fountain of youth there. The average age of state residents is definitive proof that the Ponce de Leon was as crazy as his name suggested."
That frightened him off for a bit, mostly because he didn't know how to reply to my accusations. But really, the amusing part of this came on Sunday. We were on the water again. It was actually a bit warmer than it was on Saturday, but like I said, that has no meaning on what I wear. I know how to keep it classy, so I was rocking socks and sandals. Mr. Florida came up to me again, and started staring at my feet.
"Dude. Are those socks made of wool?"
I quickly evaluated what was happening.
1) He's hitting on me. Footwear is always how it starts. Probability this was the case: 25%
2) He's a fashion designer, and is really into my style. Probability this was the case: 0.1%
3) He has it in for sheep. Anything that makes them uncomfortable is a good thing. Probability this was the case: 0.9%
4) He was legitimately curious about my socks. Probability this was the case: 74%
"Um, yeah. Yeah, they are."
"That's awesome. I've heard people rave about wool. Is it really good?"
This was where I broke out laughing. Not to be mean, but seriously? I briefly considered that this was some religious thing, maybe like a rabbi asking "Are you eating bacon? I've heard people rave about it. Is it really good?"
But no. Turns out wool had never touched his skin. The natural material that comes from sheep. That we've had for thousands of years. Is this for real? Apparently, it is. People from Florida need to be exposed to the outside world. Perhaps they can organize a study overseas program in Canadia.
Hope all is well guys. Sorry for the lack of posting, there's a lot of outside pressure telling me that I need to do work, but hey. You all know my philosophy on working.
Showing posts with label Canada. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Canada. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Canadian* Adventures
In my last post, I mentioned that I was going to Nova Scotia (which translates to "New Scotia." I think a scotia is a type of rash, but I could be wrong). I should clarify what I meant: I meant that I was trying to go to Nova Scotia. In my case, the difference between those two statements is similar to the difference between my saying "I have a lot of friends" and "when I have good dreams, I have a lot of friends" -- a substantial one.
I won't bore you with any foreshadowing because there was none. Emily (my roadtripping partner) and I were driving happily for two days. Everything was fine up to the border. The drive went well, Maine was pretty, and spirits were high. We waited for a few minutes at the border before pulling up to the gate. This was how I thought the conversation between me and the border guard would go:
Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi. We'd like to enter your beautiful country, which is disrespected without reason by most Americans. Can we come in?
Guard: Hmmm... That depends, eh? Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: No! We're planning on importing goodwill and friendship into your country, and exporting a great reputation for Canada through my huge blog readership!
Guard: Awesome, eh? Go on in, and here, have a shot of maple syrup that I keep handy in my flask!
That wasn't what actually happened. This is more along the lines of what actually happened.
Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi...
Guard: Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: Er, no.
Guard: Have either of you two ever been before a judge, eh?
Me: (thinking to myself) Aw, he's noticed how bashful I get before authority figures, and is trying to comfort me!
Me: Gosh, she hasn't, but I actually have! Funny story.
Guard: I don't really want to hear it. Go into the office now. If you just drop your pants now and bend over, it might save time later, eh?
This was when a pretty Canadian border guard grilled me (this is not as fun as it sounds, and no maple syrup marinade was involved, if that's what you were wondering), and then told me that I had reckless endangerment on my record (NB: If you googled me to find out if I have a record or anything, I really don't. This is an error, I swear). At this point, I was hoping against hope that she would say something like,"A wild one! You'll fit right into our untamed country. And what's more, you didn't even hurt anyone! That's like cautious endangerment. I have so much respect for you. Here's my number, call me when you guys are partying, I think it would be fun to join you, eh?"
That didn't happen, though. After she ignored me for two hours (I'm used to this - girls normally ignore me when I'm asking them out, so this didn't seem unusual), she smiled nicely, and told me that I had to sign a paper saying I didn't want to come into Canadia, anyway, and I wouldn't try to come back for ten years. The best way to think of this is that Canadia pre-emptively issued a restraining order against me. This is something that I actually have never had happen to me with a girl despite some of my best attempts, so I didn't know how to react. I wanted to find an adult, preferably a policeman, and ask for advice in between sobs. Emily's wiser counsel prevailed, fortunately, so we just went to a bookstore, got a guidebook for Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, went to the public library to e-mail the people we were supposed to visit, and then started driving around.
So I never went to Canada on my road trip. Instead, we stayed in the northeast and had an awesome time. We also saw a moose, which was roughly the size of the largest town we saw in Maine.
Findings:
Maine: Very large. Very, very large.
New Hampshire: Not as large as Maine, not as happy as Vermont. We barely spent any time there.
Vermont: People are strangely happy in Vermont. I suspect the water is drugged with happy pills by the corporation that runs Ben and Jerry's. It's also beautiful.
Anyway, I'm still a bit disorganized, and I need to find a giant to step on my back to straighten it out after sitting in the traffic we hit in New Jersey. Stay tuned, I'll put some photos of the trip up eventually, and discuss a few more things that I noticed while staring blankly out the passenger seat window for hours (this is more dangerous than it sounds. I was driving).
I won't bore you with any foreshadowing because there was none. Emily (my roadtripping partner) and I were driving happily for two days. Everything was fine up to the border. The drive went well, Maine was pretty, and spirits were high. We waited for a few minutes at the border before pulling up to the gate. This was how I thought the conversation between me and the border guard would go:
Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi. We'd like to enter your beautiful country, which is disrespected without reason by most Americans. Can we come in?
Guard: Hmmm... That depends, eh? Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: No! We're planning on importing goodwill and friendship into your country, and exporting a great reputation for Canada through my huge blog readership!
Guard: Awesome, eh? Go on in, and here, have a shot of maple syrup that I keep handy in my flask!
That wasn't what actually happened. This is more along the lines of what actually happened.
Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi...
Guard: Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: Er, no.
Guard: Have either of you two ever been before a judge, eh?
Me: (thinking to myself) Aw, he's noticed how bashful I get before authority figures, and is trying to comfort me!
Me: Gosh, she hasn't, but I actually have! Funny story.
Guard: I don't really want to hear it. Go into the office now. If you just drop your pants now and bend over, it might save time later, eh?
This was when a pretty Canadian border guard grilled me (this is not as fun as it sounds, and no maple syrup marinade was involved, if that's what you were wondering), and then told me that I had reckless endangerment on my record (NB: If you googled me to find out if I have a record or anything, I really don't. This is an error, I swear). At this point, I was hoping against hope that she would say something like,"A wild one! You'll fit right into our untamed country. And what's more, you didn't even hurt anyone! That's like cautious endangerment. I have so much respect for you. Here's my number, call me when you guys are partying, I think it would be fun to join you, eh?"
That didn't happen, though. After she ignored me for two hours (I'm used to this - girls normally ignore me when I'm asking them out, so this didn't seem unusual), she smiled nicely, and told me that I had to sign a paper saying I didn't want to come into Canadia, anyway, and I wouldn't try to come back for ten years. The best way to think of this is that Canadia pre-emptively issued a restraining order against me. This is something that I actually have never had happen to me with a girl despite some of my best attempts, so I didn't know how to react. I wanted to find an adult, preferably a policeman, and ask for advice in between sobs. Emily's wiser counsel prevailed, fortunately, so we just went to a bookstore, got a guidebook for Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, went to the public library to e-mail the people we were supposed to visit, and then started driving around.
So I never went to Canada on my road trip. Instead, we stayed in the northeast and had an awesome time. We also saw a moose, which was roughly the size of the largest town we saw in Maine.
Findings:
Maine: Very large. Very, very large.
New Hampshire: Not as large as Maine, not as happy as Vermont. We barely spent any time there.
Vermont: People are strangely happy in Vermont. I suspect the water is drugged with happy pills by the corporation that runs Ben and Jerry's. It's also beautiful.
Anyway, I'm still a bit disorganized, and I need to find a giant to step on my back to straighten it out after sitting in the traffic we hit in New Jersey. Stay tuned, I'll put some photos of the trip up eventually, and discuss a few more things that I noticed while staring blankly out the passenger seat window for hours (this is more dangerous than it sounds. I was driving).
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Pre-Trip Excitement II
I finished that pesky paper I had mentioned yesterday, so stress levels are down, and once again, anyone who meets me is likely to walk away thinking, "Gosh, I just met a man of leisure!" Right after that, they're going to save my number as "Do Not Answer this Number... Creep." Maybe with all the leisure time I have now, I should change my name to that.
For those of you interested in stalking me*, I'm going to Nova Scotia tomorrow morning. Now, Nova Scotia, for better or worse, is in Canadia, where the internet has yet to be discovered. Don't worry for Canadia's sake - they have their top scientist** working on it. Unfortunately, progress is slower than molasses. What this means is that I will probably not be posting for the next ten days. What this also means is that you won't have any reason to click refresh compulsively on my page, hoping that I've added a new post*.
"O kind and humorous man of leisure," you're probably asking your screen right now*, "what should I do in the meantime without your blog to amuse me and prod me into deep thought?" Proselytize. Tell people exactly what you think of me***, and then tell them to read my blog. I'd appreciate that so much that if you told me you showed someone my blog and they laughed, I would probably buy you a cookie.
A good way to spread the word about me could be to get a tattoo saying something about how much you love my blog. Nothing says unnatural devotion like injecting ink directly into your skin (if this seems extreme, just use a fat sharpee). On that note, while running today, I saw an interesting tattoo. I didn't have my camera with me, so I'll have to use my descriptive powers. Imagine, if you will, an average guy jogging in front of you with his shirt off. Brown hair, normal farmer's tan, green shorts. You keep imagining, I'm going to keep remembering. Imagine a weird spot on his lower back, right above the shorts... Look closer, through your mind's eye. It's a circle... Wait, no, it's a male sign. A male sign! A male-sign tramp-stamp! What is he trying to broadcast to the world? More importantly, is the conversation I'm imagining in my head one that's ever happened?
Him: I noticed you've got a tattoo of some squiggly lines on your lower back. Does it mean anything?
Her: It means I haven't found my soul-mate.
Him: *turns around, lifts shirt a tiny bit* Check it, babe. Hoo-ah!
Her: Ignore what I said last. It's all changed now. Let's go home.
Actually, that's probably what he thought would happen, but I can't really ever see that going down. Can anyone else envision a more realistic conversation between those two? If you can, I'd love to hear it.
I hope you all have a great time over the next ten days. Really. Please don't miss me too much*, and expect a report when I get back!
*Yeah, right. It's ok, I know I'm deluding myself.
**The person who discovered Maple Syrup. He's still alive.
***Actually, maybe you should skip this part.
For those of you interested in stalking me*, I'm going to Nova Scotia tomorrow morning. Now, Nova Scotia, for better or worse, is in Canadia, where the internet has yet to be discovered. Don't worry for Canadia's sake - they have their top scientist** working on it. Unfortunately, progress is slower than molasses. What this means is that I will probably not be posting for the next ten days. What this also means is that you won't have any reason to click refresh compulsively on my page, hoping that I've added a new post*.
"O kind and humorous man of leisure," you're probably asking your screen right now*, "what should I do in the meantime without your blog to amuse me and prod me into deep thought?" Proselytize. Tell people exactly what you think of me***, and then tell them to read my blog. I'd appreciate that so much that if you told me you showed someone my blog and they laughed, I would probably buy you a cookie.
A good way to spread the word about me could be to get a tattoo saying something about how much you love my blog. Nothing says unnatural devotion like injecting ink directly into your skin (if this seems extreme, just use a fat sharpee). On that note, while running today, I saw an interesting tattoo. I didn't have my camera with me, so I'll have to use my descriptive powers. Imagine, if you will, an average guy jogging in front of you with his shirt off. Brown hair, normal farmer's tan, green shorts. You keep imagining, I'm going to keep remembering. Imagine a weird spot on his lower back, right above the shorts... Look closer, through your mind's eye. It's a circle... Wait, no, it's a male sign. A male sign! A male-sign tramp-stamp! What is he trying to broadcast to the world? More importantly, is the conversation I'm imagining in my head one that's ever happened?
Him: I noticed you've got a tattoo of some squiggly lines on your lower back. Does it mean anything?
Her: It means I haven't found my soul-mate.
Him: *turns around, lifts shirt a tiny bit* Check it, babe. Hoo-ah!
Her: Ignore what I said last. It's all changed now. Let's go home.
Actually, that's probably what he thought would happen, but I can't really ever see that going down. Can anyone else envision a more realistic conversation between those two? If you can, I'd love to hear it.
I hope you all have a great time over the next ten days. Really. Please don't miss me too much*, and expect a report when I get back!
*Yeah, right. It's ok, I know I'm deluding myself.
**The person who discovered Maple Syrup. He's still alive.
***Actually, maybe you should skip this part.
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